I remember the first time meeting my good friend Jimmie.
They said he was addicted to whiskey.
Maker’s Mark to be exact.
I was longing to be in my natural habitat
A country musician who’s skin’s black.
Pop-country is supposed to be bad.
I never understood that.
Nobody fucked with us.
Immediate joy and trust.
Our minds clicked like a clique on a beat.
“Stick around with us. Show us your mind. Have a seat. Maybe you could be a part of our team.”
A connection I never had yet.
People finally considered my mind an asset.
Code names and NDAs to protect the stars Stoney Creek would create.
She was supposed to come along someday,
but she had no patience to wait.
Absorbed by past dates and bad fates.
Code name’s “Whiskey,” because I matched shot for shot.
Shared my story, heard their thoughts.
Told me I had made my mark.
“Whiskey is a Mark Maker. A genius writer and creator”
We made our mark with Maker’s Mark.
We gamble often off the charts.
Take some time to play some cards.
Write some songs straight from the heart.
A connection that’ll never fail.
We knew it from the start.